


Why Behold When You Can Be Held?

by Dragonslaeyr



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21706402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonslaeyr/pseuds/Dragonslaeyr
Summary: The first time it happened, Martin was alone.Perhaps that was fitting. Nobody else to watch, so why not train your eye on the only person in the archives, right? It almost made sense, but Martin actively tamped down the panicky part of his brain that was trying to justify why there was a palm-sized grey tape recorder sitting on the table behind him when there absolutely had not been one there a moment ago.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 15
Kudos: 351





	Why Behold When You Can Be Held?

The first time it happened, Martin was alone.

Perhaps that was fitting. Nobody else to watch, so why not train your eye on the only person in the archives, right? It almost made _sense_ , but Martin actively tamped down the panicky part of his brain that was trying to justify why there was a palm-sized grey tape recorder sitting on the table behind him when there _absolutely had not been one there a moment ago._

"Erm," he began, coherently. "Hello?"

In response, the recorder clicked on and began to whir warmly. 

Well. As warmly as an inhuman piece of metal and plastic could be warm, which is to say, apparently very.

"Jon left for the day, then?" He asked the recorder, and it said a lot about how his life was progressing that doing so wasn't even one of the top ten strangest things that had happened today, let alone in the past week, month, year.

The whir didn't vascillate.

"Are you just interested in listening to me, specifically?" He almost felt touched at the idea, though the emotion was rapidly swamped by that prickle of fear, that ever-present _W_ _atching_ swelling into something bigger, wider, darker. "Or are you recording this because of something important?"

The very idea was enough to get him to pivot in place and search the Archives wildly, as if his meagre eyesight could catch every shift in light, every twitching shadow, every crawling insect or spider. He stood there, pressed back against the rough edge of the desk as the seconds ticked by. But there was nothing to see, nothing to interpret or comprehend, and he was left blinking at the dark, his eyes adjusting to see the rows of boxes and tattered files, all too familiar after spending so much time wandering between the shelves. 

"So," Martin began again, wincing at the way that his voice broke the silence, echoing very faintly into the dim. "You're really just sitting there and recording me?"

The recorder whirred softly. 

"Right. Well. Sorry to say it, but I think I'm leaving now." He paused a beat, as if waiting for some form of disappointment to show on the recorder before realising the absurdity of it all and scooping it up, clicking it off, and stowing it in his pocket. 

He gathered his files and made his way quietly through the halls to his desk, where he stowed his research in a random drawer and, after a moment's hesitation, dropped the recorder in with them.

The next morning, when he returned to his desk, it was gone.

𓂀

"I'm gonna kill him," Tim paced back and forth across the length of the break room, gritting his teeth and seething in no particular direction. "You know he was listening in on me in my office the other day? Bastard thought he could leave a recorder going on my bookshelf, but I fuckin' found it."

Martin, who had only been half-listening out of something like politeness and something a lot more like being trapped away from the door by an angry Tim, perked up from his spot. "Oh, you found a recorder too?"

"What, he's spying on you too, now?" Tim stopped pacing long enough to actually look a bit put off by the idea. "Shit Martin, I thought he'd exonerated you in his weird little games."

"I don't think it's him," Martin protested. "I think it's, well, It."

"You think there's a difference?" Tim shook his head, looking like he was about to start pacing again before Jon stepped into the room, ignoring the pair of them and making his way directly for the kettle, where Martin had only just finished boiling water. "See? He heard us talking about him."

Jon plucked a tea bag from the box on the counter— _peppermint_ , Martin's mind helpfully pointed out before he shoved the thought to the part of his brain that dealt with those small bits of information—and dropped it into his mug, fixing Tim with a weary look. "Tim, I can assure you that I don't need to listen in on your conversations to know what you're saying about me."

"Yeah, because you're fucking recording my every waking moment between these walls!" With each word, Tim had taken another step towards Jon until they were inches apart, and Martin would have intervened, except Jon looked barely phased by Tim's actions, only raising his mug to his lips and sipping loudly. "Stop listening to me. Stop thinking about me. Stop _watching_ me."

He didn't give Jon a moment to respond, instead whirling on his heels and storming off out of the break room. Jon waited a beat for Tim to leave before collapsing into one of the chairs, across the table from Martin. He felt something in his stomach flip as he watched Jon sip again at his tea, the thrill of being this close. "What was he talking about with the recorders?"

"Ah, well," Martin paused, scratching absently at his neck, if only to have something to do instead of meet Jon's piercing stare. "There have been a few recorders, um. Turning up."

Jon continued to stare. 

"When nobody's around." Martin coughed, his neck suddenly very itchy and the ceiling deeply fascinating. "When nobody remembers putting them there."

Jon _stared_.

"Mine, um. Disappeared the next day, though," he added helpfully. 

There was a beat of quiet as the silence was filled with only the hum of the fridge and the tick of the wall clock before Jon cleared his throat and spoke. "Just you and Tim then?"

"I'm, ah. Not sure. Haven't asked," Martin dropped his hands to his lap, folding them tightly together and finally meeting Jon's sharp gaze. It was penetrating and Martin almost thought he could drown in it, though he wasn't quite sure that that was a good thing. 

"Hm," was all Jon said in response to that, and Martin found himself finishing his lunch in a kind of quiet peace across from Jon, allowing himself an extra ten minutes before he stood and shuffled his way back to the Archives with a muted ' _good-bye_ _'_ that was returned, but only absentmindedly and long after he had left the room. 

𓂀

"Found this in my pocket, of all places," Melanie dropped into the soft cushioned chair of the library, tossing the tiny tape recorder onto the side table set between the two plush red seats. 

Basira glanced up from _The Oneiromancers Guide to Dreamwalking_ and eyed the recorder warily. "Yeah, I found one in my make-up bag the other day. Bit creepy."

"Just a bit?"

"Well," she reasoned, picking up the tiny device and feeling the whir of it in her palm. "It wasn't on then."

"Thank God for the small things," Melanie grumbled, taking the recorder back from Basira's awaiting palm. She attempted to switch it off, but found it flicked back on almost immediately. Several more vain attempts only ended in her eventually getting fed up and glaring darkly at the tiny rectangle for a long, stretching moment. "What do you think they are? Is it trying to watch us? Is _he_ trying to watch us?"

"I think," Basira paused, setting her book on the side table. "I think it's supposed to be a weird kind of comfort. Like a promise. When it's watching, nothing else can get at us. Or, at least, when it's watching it'll Know if something is trying to hurt us."

Melanie went quiet for a moment, drinking in Basira's words, and the other woman had just begun to pick up her book again when Melanie spoke up. "It wouldn't tell us though, would it? If we were in trouble. It would just record the whole thing."

"Maybe that's for the best sometimes. Besides," Basira added, thumbing at the pages to find where she had left off. "I don't think we can do anything about them."

Melanie nodded sagely, if wearily. "Tim smashed his with a hammer yesterday. Bits of plastic everywhere, and when he turned around, there was an even bigger one set on the shelf behind him."

"Left that one be, did he?" Basira hummed, picking absentmindedly at the corner of her page.

Melanie snorted. "I think he went out to buy a bigger hammer."

𓂀

The second time Martin discovered one of the recorders, it had manifested outside the door to the Archives. He had been carrying two large boxes of haphazard files and tapes stacked precariously over each other in the least helpful and most top-heavy way possible, but found himself drawn to the tiny recorder wedged between the Archives' door and the wall, propping it open. 

"Oh, hello," he greeted it absently. "Lost? Should I open the door for you?"

He glanced over his shoulder then, suddenly deeply aware that he was talking to an inanimate object and offering to get the door for it _chrissakes_. But there was nobody about and Martin backed into the door and pushed it open, twisting into the room and glancing down to see that the recorder had disappeared. 

"Ungrateful," he hissed, making his way inside regardless and toeing around the boxes in search of an empty spot to put down these boxes because _dear god his arms were burning help._

It was only when he rounded the corner and spotted the folded up shape of Jon, surrounded by a circle of tape recorders and half-marked up statements, that he felt the beginnings of a realisation pressing at the edges of his mind. The devices whirred in a humming chorus not unlike crickets on a warm night, but a few played back the faint sound of mingled voices, regurgitating horrific accounts of fear and awe and destruction in soft, chirruping voices. 

Gently, Martin set the boxes down atop a larger one simply labeled _Fire???_ in hasty pink sharpie. Jon didn't notice his appearance, simply plucking a single recorder from the small circle around him and clicking the record button, mumbling a quiet ' _Test, test_ ' into it and playing it back. To Martin's horror, he realised too late that the recorder had been the same one from outside as his voice spilled out over the rippling cacophony of other voices, a quiet murmur of ' _Oh, hello?_ ' and ' _Lost?_ ' that sounded just as ridiculous listening back as it had when he had said it. But regardless, Jon blinked down at the recorder before peering up at Martin, as if he had only just realised that he was there. Not knowing quite what to say or do, Martin folded himself up and sat down across from Jon, picking up a random recorder that whirred at his feet, if only to have something to hold as he waited for Jon to say something.

"You, ah," Jon paused, clearing his throat. "You know they can't actually talk back to you, right?"

"That's it," Martin replied flatly and made to leave, uncrossing his legs and beginning to stand before he felt the loose, brief touch of Jon's hand at his wrist. He turned to see the faintest trace of amusement rippling across Jon's face, but it was enough to get him to sit back down. "It's not real, you know. That one is one of the... manifested ones."

"As long as it records good tape," Jon gave him a wry look as he gripped the recorder, his fingertips drumming light, nonsensical rhythms against the hard plastic as he drew his hand back slowly, as if he was almost savouring the touch. Martin fought not to shiver.

"Are they yours then? Or... _Its_?"

"You know," Jon began, sotto voce. "I'm not quite sure which is which anymore."

𓂀

After that, there were more of them. Mostly around Martin, though a small handful of them seemed to trail after Tim. He had taken to carrying a bat wherever he went in the building, something that quite frightened the rest of the extended Institute staff. Elias had been forced to explain away Tim's new tendencies in unusually patient tones to a half-dozen nervous staffers who had lined up outside of his office early on a Tuesday morning. 

But the recorders. Oh, the recorders. Martin had begun getting used to them, only realising that he had become well and truly inoculated against their presence when he found himself drawing one from his pocket to make a brief note instead of jotting it down in his ever-present notebook. At some point they had even seemingly adjusted to his preferences, all of them manifesting as slim, portable designs in sleek blacks and gunmental grey. They had a slightly matte finish, and were devoid of brand names, though each was emblazoned on the back with a hyperrealistic eye, whose pupil seemed to track your movement if you stared at it for long enough. Martin still hadn't figured out the best way to hold them so as not to touch the eye, which had a tendency to feel soft and gel-like against his palm. 

Still, there were worse things to worry about than a slight haunting-by-tape-recorder. He had thought about asking Jon about it again, but the man had been treating the Archives like a revolving door, only stopping by long enough to drop off new tapes and take a bit of verbal abuse from Tim and sometimes Melanie before dashing out again in a flurry of tinny voices and whirring metal on plastic.

Still, he couldn't move forever, and Martin realised as much when he literally ran into Jon in the other man's apparent haste to flee the Archives yet again. They both fell back into opposite ends of the hallway, though Jon clattered much louder as several small recorders fell from his pockets and hands to the ground. Wordlessly, Martin began picking up the recorders, and when he stood they were practically nose to nose, both their arms full.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," Jon said, at the same time as Martin blurted, "You look like hell."

"What?" Martin gawped as Jon nodded, "I feel it, too."

They stared at each other for a long moment before one of the recorders slid from Martin's clammy palms. Before it hit the ground, it disappeared without a sound. 

"Were they following you too?" Martin asked hesitantly, shifting the pile in his arms and wondering vaguely if he had to keep holding them if they weren't even, you know, _real_.

"What? No," a thin line creased at Jon's brow. "Have... Have they been following you around?"

"A bit," Martin admitted, and Jon visibly cringed. "What, um. What does it mean?"

"Ah, hm," Jon cleared his throat. "Well, I think they're, ah. Tied. To my thoughts. My concerns."

"Your concerns?" Martin tried not to let the faint buzz of warmth in his stomach burn too brightly as he pressed on. "What do you mean?"

Jon coughed, and for the first time Martin realised that he was _blushing_. "I think that when I worry about someone, It... manifests the recorders to, well. To watch. Them."

"So whenever you think about someone, it Beholds them through a tape recorder?"

"Whenever I worry about someone," Jon corrected absently, but he need not have bothered, because the recorders were falling and Martin's fingers were curling into his collar and he tugged Jon forward in one quick motion, sealing his lips over his as the buzzing warmth in his chest blurred and whirred into a frenzy. Jon melted under his touch, pressing forward into the kiss, his hands coming up to gently press his fingertips to Martin's cheeks, their touch almost hesitant in their minstration.

It was the sharp _clack_ s of several recorders hitting the ground that made Martin pull away, though he didn't move far, allowing his eyes to roam over Jon's face in the brief stolen seconds as his eyes remained closed, his lips wet and pink. "There were _so many_ recorders."

"I was gone for a long time," Jon's eyes opened halfway, his eyelids heavy as they gazed back at Martin. "I wanted to know how you were."

"You don't need to wonder anymore," Martin murmured, shifting so their foreheads were pressed against each other. 

"No," Jon agreed, as he closed the distance between them. "I guess not."

On the floor, the last remaining recorder clicked off.

**Author's Note:**

> In my headcanon, the recorders are the Admiral of the Institute.


End file.
